


A Reminder of You

by ivefoundmygoldfish (melonpanparade)



Series: Sherlock Rare Pair Bingo [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, M/M, takes place between season 1 and 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-26
Updated: 2014-07-26
Packaged: 2018-02-10 12:40:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2025444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melonpanparade/pseuds/ivefoundmygoldfish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg has everything to do with Mycroft's new umbrella. Sherlock notices and forces Mycroft to make his move. Alternatively, the story behind Mycroft's new umbrella in season 2. </p><p>
  <i>“Oh, shut it, Mycroft. You allowed him to choose something that you constantly hold by your side. No doubt you associate it with him and that tells us all that we need to know.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Reminder of You

**Author's Note:**

> Mycroft's umbrella in season 2 looks like [this](http://www.sherlockology.com/props/mycrofts-umbrella-s2).

“I swear, I’m going to strangle Sherlock,” Greg growled. 

Where in the bloody hell was the damned bus stop? Surely if he kept on going along this road, he’d hit a bus stop… or was the bus stop down the street to his left? And which bus went to the Yard again? Oh right, the one that just drove past him and splashed dirty puddle water all over his trousers, too. Lovely day this was turning out to be. So, if the bus had come from the street to his left, then… Greg squinted, trying to gauge how far he would have to walk to reach the bus stop and—hang on a minute, that man who had just entered the shop just down the street—where had he seen that immaculate posture and dress sense before? He quickened his steps, and a wide smile crossed his face as soon as he was closer and at a better angle to read the shop’s signage. James Smith and Sons Umbrella Shop. It had to be him.

The inside of the shop was quaint and well maintained, still retaining the classy feel from its establishment in 1830. The walls boasted an impressive array of umbrellas of all different styles and colours, yet Greg’s attention was drawn elsewhere, instead. 

“Mycroft!” 

“Gregory,” Mycroft said mildly. “What a pleasant surprise to see you here.” 

“Glad it’s pleasant for one of us,” replied Greg, trying to keep the bite out of his tone. A miserable look crossed his face. 

Mycroft quirked one eyebrow and waited for him to elaborate. 

“Oh, you know, the usual. Sherlock and John were skulking about the British Museum for one of their cases and they called me over, and then,” Greg balled his fists and took a deep breath before continuing. “And then they went off in my car—hell, does Sherlock even have his licence?” 

At least Mycroft looked sympathetic. It felt good to get that off his chest to someone who understood. Come to think of it, worse had probably happened to Mycroft. Growing up with Sherlock seemed like a sure recipe for disaster. He shivered at the mere thought. 

“…I shall compensate in full should an unexpected circumstance befall your car.” 

Greg groaned. That didn’t sound very reassuring, and it definitely wasn’t the answer he wanted to hear. Nor was he expecting to see Mycroft studying him with slight intensity, waiting for something. It made sense once he realised he hadn’t explained why he was in the shop. 

“Erm, I got lost trying to find the bus stop,” Greg looked away, faintly embarrassed. “And then I thought I saw you entering the shop.” 

What were the chances, Mycroft marvelled upon hearing the explanation, wasting no time in acting upon his good fortune. “After I complete my business here, I would be happy to provide you with a lift back to the Yard. That is, if you do not have any pressing engagements,” he added hurriedly. 

Greg grinned, feeling better about the whole fiasco already. He’d always been a firm believer in silver linings, even if he was battered by the forceful whirlwind that was Sherlock before reaching it. “Sally’s taking care of the stuff back at the Yard, so if you include a cup of coffee to compensate for chasing after your brother, I might be tempted to take you up on your offer.”

“Very well then.” Mycroft smiled. 

“With your company,” he clarified in a firm voice, watching Mycroft stiffen at his request. It only lasted several moments before Mycroft nodded and smiled again, this time something shy and soft and rare showing in his gaze. Greg swallowed and forced himself to change the subject, overcome by the sheer tenderness blooming in his chest at the sight. “So, shopping for a new umbrella, then?” 

“Yes. It… perished in one of Sherlock’s experiments.” Mycroft frowned. “Although I suppose I should be grateful that he only managed to purloin an umbrella, and not a vehicle.” 

“Don’t remind me,” Greg grunted, and then shuffled closer to Mycroft to take a look at the umbrella he was examining. “What kind of umbrella are you looking for?” 

“Just a regular one.” 

“Just a regular one, he says,” Greg teased. “Does that mean your umbrella isn’t actually a weapon?” 

“That would be telling, my dear Inspector,” Mycroft chuckled. 

“I wouldn’t put it past you. I mean, you _are_ in a shop that advertises dagger canes and swordsticks as part of their inventory.” 

“It is most unfortunate that the plaques outside have remained since the shop’s establishment in the early 1800s, when such weapons were still legalised.” 

“Darn, I was hoping to pick one up for myself. Would help intimidate those nefarious criminals.” He paused for a moment before adding, “Or Sherlock.” 

“Sherlock has yet to be intimidated by my own umbrella,” Mycroft said, glancing ruefully at his side where his umbrella should have been. Greg suppressed a smile that was threatening to show on his face. Come to think of it, this was his first time seeing Mycroft without his umbrella—it was like the weapon to his armour; well, three-piece suit, but close enough—and he almost looked like a little child lost without his security blanket. It was strange, but oddly endearing.  

Greg held up an umbrella that was a few steps to his right. “This is nostalgic. My grandfather used to have an umbrella like this. He wasn’t too pleased when I almost broke it while using it as a fencing stick.” 

“Gregory!” Mycroft sounded scandalised, but there was a trace of mirth in his eyes suggesting otherwise. “Sherlock and I used to engage in mock sword fights with each other too, until…” he trailed off uncertainly, mirth suddenly replaced with a sorrowful wistfulness.

“I’m sorry,” Greg apologised, touching Mycroft’s arm gently. Whatever had happened in the Holmes’ brothers’ childhood was none of his business, and he felt bad for bringing something up that invoked unpleasant memories for Mycroft. 

“Do not apologise. I was merely… distracted. Thank you, Gregory.” 

Greg pursed his lips and fumbled to find another topic of conversation. Perhaps something Mycroft would enjoy talking about. 

“Can you tell me about the different types of umbrellas?” 

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. 

“Oh, don’t look at me like that.” Greg swatted at him playfully. “Fine, I just want to know which ones are used to conceal weapons, so I know which one to recommend you.” 

“Oh? I look forward to seeing just how persuasive you can be, Inspector.” 

“Quite, I think you’ll find if you’ll give me the chance.” 

“Very well.” Mycroft walked to the opposite side of the shop, brushing aside the urge to remove his jacket to counter the sudden rise in temperature he was feeling. “These here are tube umbrellas. They are fitted with a hollow, metal shaft, which is the main differentiator from the stick or solid umbrella.”

“Hm, doesn’t seem thick enough to be able to conceal a decent blade.” 

“There are weapons other than blades, Gregory.” 

“It’s not as intimidating, though. Doesn’t leave much to the imagination,” Greg argued. 

Mycroft picked one up and gestured to the base of the handle. “In history, a tube umbrella made by this very maker was modified to fit a hypodermic needle in which sat a pellet made of the deadly poison, ricin.” Mycroft leaned closer and lowered his voice as if he were telling a secret. Greg could feel the puff of breath ghost over his ear. “The secret agent stabbed his victim in his thigh as he walked past.” With a satisfied smile on his face, he pulled back and asked, “Still have queries about its performance?” 

“You got me there,” Greg admitted. In all honesty, though, he was more entranced by the enthusiasm with which Mycroft narrated anecdotes. He was captivated by the way Mycroft lit up when talking about things that interested him—a huge change from the stuffy persona he affected when work matters were concerned. 

“What’s this one then?” 

“A solid umbrella, made out of a continuous piece of wood. Rather sturdy, so one could use it as a walking stick, but it is heavier than the other two types.”

“What’s the other type?”

“A stick umbrella, which can also double up as a walking stick. However, it is made from two separate pieces of wood.”

Greg hummed thoughtfully. “Thanks, that was all rather informative.” 

“My pleasure,” Mycroft smiled. “Have you decided on your recommendation?” 

He paced the perimeter of the shop for a couple of minutes, examining umbrellas with great care and even daring to open a few, until he returned to where Mycroft was standing. He handed his choice to Mycroft with an air of confidence and a crooked grin.  

“You picked a tube umbrella?” 

“I thought the black shaft looked more elegant—suits you. And besides, you carry it around for show most of the time anyway, so I thought you’d prefer something light.” 

Mycroft looked impressed. 

“And if you know John Steed from the Avengers, his sword-slash-umbrella had a Whanghee handle or whatever it’s called, so you can fuel the imagination of your poor, unsuspecting victims when you’re not using your umbrella to combat London’s dreary weather.” 

“And here I thought my anecdote was what made you change your mind.” 

It had, slightly. After all, Mycroft didn’t tell him any interesting stories about the other two types of umbrellas, so he supposed Mycroft was more partial to that one. And he hadn’t smiled brightly the same way he had when he was talking about the tube umbrella either. But Mycroft didn’t have to know about that. 

“Nope, all John Steed,” Greg joked. 

“I suppose I shall have to aspire to live up to your John Steed, then,” Mycroft murmured while searching for an umbrella of the same model appropriate for his height. 

“I’ll buy you a bowler hat, and then you’ll be set.” Greg’s hand found Mycroft’s elbow, and without realising, he was gently guiding him to the counter. 

“Your wry sense of humour never fails to astound me, Inspector.” 

“I do my best.” He flashed his best charming smile at Mycroft and was pleased to elicit a chuckle for his antics. 

“So, coffee followed by the Yard, was it?” Mycroft asked as a black car pulled up to the kerb. 

“Yeah, coffee,” Greg agreed, feeling a sudden wave of exhaustion wash over him as he slid into the car and relaxed into the soft leather seats. It had been a long day. “You havta have some too,” he mumbled before dropping off to sleep.   

Mycroft allowed himself to look at Greg’s sleeping figure for a moment before giving the driver hushed instructions to Greg’s flat.

Coffee would have to wait until another day.

 

* * *

 

“Hm, that’s not your usual umbrella,” was the first thing Sherlock said when Mycroft entered 221B.

“If you had already forgotten, it perished at the hands of one of your experiments, brother mine,” Mycroft remarked dryly, noticeably making himself comfortable in John’s chair.

“Irrelevant.” Sherlock returned his violin to its rightful place with utmost reverence, and then reached over to pluck Mycroft’s umbrella from his hand. “What I mean is: this is hardly your usual choice of handle. So who chose it?”

Mycroft stubbornly remained silent.

“Interesting.” Sherlock placed the umbrella on the table and steepled his fingers under his chin. “You bought it within the past week, and you only ever buy your umbrellas from that shop on New Oxford Street, so who—oh!”

Mycroft kept his face blank and allowed himself to be subjected to Sherlock’s scrutinising gaze.

“Lestrade.” Sherlock curled his lips into a sneer. “Oh dear, brother. You certainly are becoming sentimental.”

“How?” asked Mycroft, careful to keep his intonation bland. “The inspector has a good eye for umbrellas,” he observed, studying the handle from his vantage point.

“Oh, shut it, Mycroft. You allowed him to choose something that you constantly hold by your side. No doubt you associate it with him and that tells us all that we need to know.”

“Change the subject, now.”

“No, let’s discuss this, _brother._ ”

“There is nothing to discuss.”

“He’d be good for you, so why don’t you tell him?”

“Sherlock…”

“If you engage in relations with Lestrade…” Sherlock pulled a face, shuddered, and then leaned back further into his chair, deep in contemplation. “You’ll be besotted, of course—even more than you are now—and that will keep you occupied enough to stop you from sticking your big nose into my business.” Sherlock suddenly jumped up and rubbed his hands together gleefully. “Yes, this is perfect!”

“Sherlock!”

“I can contact him for you,” Sherlock offered.

Mycroft’s face turned ashen at the very thought.

“Heavens, no.”

“Then you do it.”

“And if I do not wish to?”

“I can easily arrange something.” Sherlock pulled his lips back and bared his teeth, and Mycroft wasn’t sure whether it was meant to be a smile or a threatening look. It certainly felt like the latter.

For someone who was fiercely adamant against anyone getting involved in his affairs, Sherlock certainly wasn’t having any trouble doing the same to others. In any case, it was safer, much safer, to take matters into his own hands than to let Sherlock handle it. And the sooner he addressed the issue, the less damage Sherlock could inflict. He’d just have to put his plans into effect sooner than he had anticipated.

 

* * *

 

“Mycroft! What are you doing here?”

“I believe I owe you a coffee.”

“And your company too, great.” Gregory cleared the files on his desk to make space for the drink and then closed his laptop, gesturing with casual ease for Mycroft to take a seat in the chair opposite. “Not the best place for the date I was hoping for, but it’ll do.”

“I’m sorry, a date?”

“Yeah, a date. You know, where two people who like each other go out and have fun.” Gregory’s warm, brown eyes danced merrily.  

“I… pardon?” And for once he was rendered speechless, because really, where was Gregory’s sudden show of confidence coming from? Sometimes it showed in their odd friendship, during times of friendly banter that bordered on suggestive, but never anything as straightforward as this.

Gregory showed him his phone in lieu of an explanation.

_If my brother hasn’t thrown himself at you already, I’m giving him to you, free of charge. SH_

A smile crept onto Mycroft’s face before he burst out into laughter; a clear, mirthful sound that had Gregory laughing alongside him as well. He reached out across the desk, finally finding the courage to take Gregory’s hand in his own, and was utterly delighted when Gregory squeezed his hand in return.

Looked like his plans weren’t needed after all.

**Author's Note:**

> The [umbrella shop](http://www.james-smith.co.uk/) mentioned is most likely where Mycroft's umbrella was found. You can read what Mark Gatiss has to say on it [here](http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/masterpiece/sherlock/season2_chat_gatiss.html).
> 
> The information about the different types of umbrellas was taken from the [Fox Umbrellas website](http://www.foxumbrellas.com/index.php/faqs/tube-stick-or-solid).
> 
> Information about the assassination with the tube umbrella can be found [here](http://www.academia.edu/4137600/About_Umbrellas_and_Popular_Culture) or on [wikipedia](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bulgarian_umbrella) (it has a diagram!).
> 
> I forgot to mention that [Mark's tweet](http://lestradeinglasses.tumblr.com/post/87800729963/moderntrickster-so-this-just-happened) is very, very relevant to this fic!


End file.
